


Amazing Title

by ElDiablito_SF, Zoi no miko (zoi_no_miko)



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Marine Corps, Spanking, tomfoolery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 13:26:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF, https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoi_no_miko/pseuds/Zoi%20no%20miko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With DADT repealed, d'Artagnan expects that his friends will soon get married. He isn't... entirely... wrong. (Modern AU - Marine Corps)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amazing Title

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stuffwelike](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuffwelike/gifts).



It was, d'Artagnan reflected, only a matter of time. After all, everyone _knew_ that Athos and Aramis had been going at it like rabbits since they'd met at Camp Pendleton. He still wasn't quite sure how they'd managed to get away with it for so long, especially in the era of “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell.” Maybe it was Athos and his sheer dumb luck, or more likely, his Daddy’s political connections. Or, possibly, it was just that Athos took the Marine’s primary training mission directive of “Every Marine is, first and foremost, a Rifleman” quite too literally. So, when DADT was finally repealed, d'Artagnan realistically expected a wedding invitation in his mailbox, at his apartment in San Diego, the very next day, and was somewhat disappointed when one didn't appear for weeks.

It was incomprehensible to him, really. They had all been done with their second tour in Afghanistan, and it was unlikely that any of them would get called up again in the immediate future: the timing seemed perfect for a wedding. And more importantly, d’Artagnan shuddered to imagine, the honeymoon. Perhaps they didn’t want to get married? Perhaps they had been fighting? Although, d’Artagnan had to admit, the latter was practically foreplay for those two, so this still explained nothing. Perhaps Porthos would know?

He found the broad-shouldered Marine on the front porch of his townhouse, happily going through a stack of mail. "Don't tell me you got one and I didn't?"

Porthos glanced up and raised one eyebrow. "I have many things you don't. Women, tattoos, a badass truck, women... are you just now getting jealous?"

“Nah, dawg. I mean the wedding invitation for the impending nuptials of Athos and Aramis.”

Porthos leaned back in his deck chair, lighting a cigarette. "Nuptials, no. My official Priesthood from the Universal Life Church, yes."

“Isn’t that the ordination shit you get online?”

“Yes, but I had the certificate ordered. You know - I want it to be official-like for those two assholes." He took a long drag of his cigarette, nodding towards the other chair. "Sit your ass down, you're making me nervous."

D'Artagnan plopped himself down in the chair, careful not to upset the precarious pile of mail on the floor between them. "So they are getting married then? And just haven't sent invites?"

Porthos shrugged. "They're probably going to tell us in person."

D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow. "From Massachusetts?"

“Waspville is in this country, after all. And Athos is still made out of money, right?”

“Do you think all eleven of Aramis’s sisters are going to be bridesmaids?” d’Artagnan asked, looking somewhat like a mix between wistfulness and horror.

Porthos considered this for a long moment. "... how many of them are single again? And legal?"

“Um... well the five who are constantly jocking Athos are.... single. I think. But that’s not the point.”

“What’s the point? You wanna be a bridesmaid yourself, little dude?”

“Fuck you, fucker.” The younger Marine tried to abortively kick his friend’s chair from under him, much to Porthos’s general amusement.

“Oh shit, saved by the bell,” Porthos shifted and took his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans.

“Did your ass just vibrate?”

“Shhh!” Porthos grinned and answered the call. “Semper fi, motherfucker!”

D'Artagnan tried to make sense of the phone conversation from just Porthos's end, but found it nearly impossible. It involved a lot of profanity and laughter, and not much else.

"Yeah," Porthos finally said, "I'm here with the munchkin. We'll see you in two shakes of a pig's tail." Then he hung up and stood. "Come on."

"Come on where? Who was that? And did you seriously just say two shakes of a pig's tail?"

"Gotta pick up a case of beer," Porthos said, catching up his keys where they sat on the veranda. "Make that three cases of beer. And some wine for that snooty Bostonian bitch. They're coming over."

"From _Massachusetts_?"

"No, dimwit, they're in town. You going to stand there like a goldfish, with your dick in your hand? Get your ass over here." Porthos jiggled his keys with intent.

It wasn't, d'Artagan had often reflected, anything like he'd expected the Marines to be like. He'd enrolled with dreams of joining the ranks of proper, educated men in finely tailored dress uniforms with perfectly creased slacks, dreams of Old Glory flying in the wind and unparalleled heroics. 

What he'd got, well.... the last part was true.

He tried to ignore the brass balls that hung from Porthos's rear view mirror as they made their way back from the liquor mart, their arms full of packs of Tecate.

“Think Athos will drink the Mexican shit?” d’Artagnan eyed the drink in his hand suspiciously.

"He'll drink anything once we get him drunk enough," Porthos proclaimed dismissively, parking the truck in front of his house, behind a suspiciously shiny rental vehicle. “Tell me that’s not a fucking Prius, for the love of fuck.”

"It could be worse, could be driving a Yaris," d'Artagnan pointed out, getting out and loading his arms up with booze.

"Fucking hippies," Porthos agreed, rounding the car and waving a pack of beer at the two figures who sat on his porch with a case of wine, one of the bottles from which was already open. "Hey, assholes!"

“Holy shit, where’s the party?” d’Artagnan approached his friends, his eyes first focusing on the wine case, then on their disturbingly carefree faces. 

“The party is wherever we are, apparently,” Athos answered, pulling the young man into an embrace, followed by a noogie.

“I’ll shank you, bitch,” d’Artagnan squealed, though Athos's certain death was immediately prevented by Porthos cracking open a Tecate and pushing it into his hand.

"Drink! We're together again! Isn't that a good enough reason to party?" Porthos guzzled back half a can in one gulp, then lowered it to eye Athos and Aramis suspiciously. "That _is_ the reason we're partying, isn't it?"

“Why else?” Aramis graced his friends with an enigmatic smile and then looked sadly around the porch. “Porthos, you do _own_ glasses, don’t you? I can’t drink this wine from the bottle like some fucking philistine anymore.”

“I’ll go check.” The host disappeared into the kitchen leaving his three comrades to catch up in the Santa Ana heat.

D'Artagnan took a drink of his beer, then drew himself up to all five feet, nine inches of his frame. "Okay, you two. Spill."

Athos raised an eyebrow. "And waste alcohol?"

“Please, bitches, I’m wearing white pants,” Aramis said with indignation.

“And you’re totally pulling that off, as any Marine would,” Athos reassured him.

"No!" d'Artagnan tried to give them both his most intimidating glare. "My wedding invite. Where. Is it?"

At that, Athos paused for a long moment, beer halfway to his lips. He glanced to Aramis, who gave him some unreadable look back. Finally, Athos cleared his throat.

"Aramis has it."

"What? You asshole!" Aramis spluttered.

"You tell him, it was _your_ idea," Athos shot back.

"Seriously? Is _this_ how you honor your vows?” Aramis knitted his eyebrows together. "Besides, I only suggested it to save you from my sisters!"

“Your VOWS!” d’Artagnan exploded.

“Ok, so you told him. Not the way I would have chosen,” Athos shrugged.

"YOUR VOWS?" d'Artagnan hollered again. "PORTHOS!"

Porthos appeared from inside the house as if on queue, holding a trio of mis-matched wine glasses, all of which had moustaches painted on them. "What?"

D'Artagnan's face was rapidly purpling. "These douchebags got married without us!"

Porthos's expression went from shocked to indignant. "What? How the fuck am I supposed to bang the bridesmaids now?"

Aramis dropped his thankfully empty bottle of wine. "You are NOT banging any of my sisters!"

"Says you," Porthos replied, handing him a glass and smoothly filling it from another wine bottle. "Now, what's this about getting married? You're not serious, are you?"

"Well it's not like we could get married here," Athos pointed out. "Unless Aramis wore a very convincing dress. And shaved his legs."

"Fuck you," Aramis replied succinctly, sipping his wine.

"But... I got ordained and everything!" Porthos seemed genuinely put out, or at least when he wasn't drinking. "Now what am I supposed to do with my priestly powers?"

“Grant us absolution?” Athos suggested sweetly.

"You need it," d'Artagnan growled. "I can’t believe you fuckers got married without us. No invites, no wedding, no wedding cake, no limos, no tuxedos, no artfully arranged flowers...."

"No bridesmaids," Porthos added sourly.

“Wow,” Aramis muttered, “Perhaps d’Artagnan should have a gay-gay wedding of his own right here in Man Diego!”

“Come on, you guys!” Athos looked almost chagrined. “It’s not like we could have done any of that. It might be legal in several states now, but my dad is still a Senator and, well, Barbara would be trying to give me head in the broom closet again.”

“That wasn’t Barbara! That was Susan!” Aramis snapped at his newly wedded spouse.

“Sorry, I keep getting their names mixed up.”

“Barbara is my mom! You could at least remember _that_ , you drunken hobag.”

“That’s a pathetic excuse!” d’Artagnan went on, apparently unappeased. “It’s not like your parents don’t know how supremely gay you both are.”

"He does have a point," Athos admitted, his eyes going soft, as if he was descending into a pleasant reverie. “They’ve pretty much known of my proclivities since I was fifteen.”

“Did they catch you banging one of your many pool boys at your Chateau de MONAY?” Porthos asked, his mouth still twitching angrily.

“Well, no... I mean, not until I was sixteen.” Athos looked up and grinned happily again. “When I was fifteen, I fell in love for the first time. Unfortunately, it was with a Grecian statue in our garden.”

“Seriously, what kind of a house did you grow up in? Versailles?” d’Artagnan snarled.

Porthos paused with a can of beer halfway to his mouth. "That's... just kind of sad. And weird."

“It was a very pretty statue!” Athos protested.

“Of what?” Aramis asked, genuinely curious.

“Of Antinous, of course.”

“Hadrian’s pretty Greek loverboy?” Aramis choked on his wine.

“Oh darling, don’t be jealous. He wasn’t really that much prettier than you.”

“What the fuck is a what? And why do you know what that is?” D’Artagnan angrily refilled his glass. “And don’t try to change the subject with stories of your youthful perversions!”

Aramis was still fuming. "I'm much prettier than Antinous, thank you very much! And also, oh, I don't know, ALIVE?"

Foreplay, d’Artagnan suddenly thought, was happening again, before his very eyes. He was outraged.

“Nah!” He announced. “Nah-fucking-ah! You are not getting away with this!”

“I think we already did,” Athos retorted, smugly raising his hand and brandishing his wedding band.

“Hand that shit over right now!” d’Artagnan demanded, extending his hand.

“Uh.... exqueeze me?”

“You’re not really married, until you’re married in the time-honored Marine tradition. Uniforms on, gentlemen! Porthos is about to officiate this motherfucker!”

"Fuck right I am," Porthos replied, disappearing into his house.

"Stay here and don't move," d'Artagnan told them both threateningly, turning and heading to his car.

“What is happening right now?” Athos turned to his husband.

“I am, frankly, disconcerted,” Aramis replied. “Are you armed?”

“You want me to kill our best friends? Not that I won’t. Vows and all,” Athos emitted an evil giggle.

“I love you,” Aramis beamed back at him.

“I mean, I did restrain myself from punching Barbara in the neck that one time she tried to give me a hand job in the gazebo at my mom’s brunch.”

“That was Elizabeth! Damn your memory span!”

“Fuck, Aramis! I bet even _you_ can’t recite all eleven of their names!”

D’Artagnan and his car were gone and Porthos was rummaging for something extremely loudly in his own bedroom. Aramis took a gulp of his wine.

“Emily, Bernadette, Elizabeth, Claudia, Marianne, Susan, Alexandra, Virginia, Dianne, Nicole, and Alberta," he recited in one breath, glaring at Athos.

“Which one is Barbara then?”

“You actually want me to punch you in the teeth right now, don’t you?”

"What about YOUR vows?" Athos took a cautious step backwards, just in case.

“I don’t remember anything about no beatings,” Aramis scowled and squinted his eyes in such a way that Athos felt a little stirring in his loins.

"Found it!" Porthos proclaimed, emerging from his front door in what looked like a hastily donned dress uniform, his saber held triumphantly overhead. “Uh... what happened to d’Art?”

"I think he had to pee," Athos said with a shrug.

Screeching tires announced the return of the fourth Marine, who lept out of his vehicle, also in full uniform, and brandishing his own ceremonial sabre.

“Now you’ll get what’s coming to you!” he announced, bouncing up the porch steps.

“Jesus Fucking Christ!” Athos speedily stepped in front of Aramis, blocking him with his body. “If you’re planning on going all Jihadist on us, think again, fuckface.”

"What? No!" d'Artagnan looked slightly scandalized. "SPANKINGS."

“ _WHAT?!_ ”

“Tradition, bitches!”

"It's true," Porthos agreed, grabbing one of the envelopes from the abandoned pile of mail. "I'm completely authorized to marry you dickheads, and then... we spank the bride. With swords. As is tradition."

"That's what you get," d'Artagnan added for emphasis.

“Which one of us are you assholes insinuating is the bride?” Athos asked with indignation.

D'Artagnan paused, glancing from one to the other and knowing that either answer would probably result in a sound ass-whooping. "Fuck it, we'll spank both of you."

“Lord knows you both deserve it,” Porthos nodded. “Shitheads,” he added casually.

Athos and Aramis glanced at each other and, having reached a mute understanding, shrugged.

“Well, I suppose, if you think this will help you move on with your lives,” Aramis offered.

"Damn right it will," Porthos agreed, holding out his ordination certificate as if it was a script. "Dearly beloved. We are gathered here today to join these two jackass Marines in the bonds of matrimony."

"Definitely not holy," d'Artagnan agreed.

“Well, at least this should be a relatively short service,” Aramis whispered to Athos. “Although I do appreciate you originally offering me a full Catholic mass, you pervert.”

"You're the kinky bastard that almost got caught fucking in a confessional," Porthos shot back. "Fuck, where was I? Uh. Do you Marine, take this Marine, to have and to hold, uh... etcetera, etcetera, kinda gross, till death by sniper, bombs, illness, or some such thing do you part?” He looked at Athos, expectedly.

“I... uh.... do?”

“Well, don’t sound so sure, you bane of my existence!” Aramis hissed.

“And, you, Aramis, the same?” Porthos asked, obligingly.

“Fuck, yeah, fine, I do too.”

"Now by the power bested in me - "

"Vested," d'Artagnan corrected.

"Yeah, that. I pronounce you man and husband. Bend over."

"What?" Aramis looked vaguely appalled, despite the fact that Athos had already, with a habitual shrug, done as ordered.

"Spankings," d'Artagnan said threateningly, brandishing his still sheathed sword.

"Semper Fi!" Porthos added, with a slightly manic grin.

As if on queue, Athos and Aramis responded with a resounding "HOO-RAH!"

In the end, they took it the only way they could: like men. After which fact, and some ice packs, they lived happily ever after.

 

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS WHAT YOU GET.


End file.
